Tanks!
by Sorge
Summary: The super-serious ongoing adventures of T1 Cunningham the T1 Cunningham and his friends. Written by Crucible.


T1 Cunningham sat in the open, looking up at the lazy white clouds as they drifted by. The air was clean and the sun was warm upon his riveted metal hull. He blinked dozily, happy to be in such a pleasant place with all of his friends.

_This is a nice place, _he thought. He smiled inwardly as all of his metal companions trundled past, heading up the hill. They moved with such purpose and direction that he could not help but admire them.

"Hello, friends!" he called pleasantly, and received a friendly shell in return. It exploded harmlessly in the dirt at his treads and he beamed at the other tank, honored to be recognized in such a way. He considered lobbing a 37 mm shell right back at the companionable tank, but there was such a thing as being too affable.

Instead, he turned his attention to the flag behind him, admiring the way it flapped so nobly in the breeze. It was a pleasant, verdant green and spoke of safety and solidarity that moved him to the core. It was a magnificent flag. Surely no violence could be perpetrated in the shadow of its calming influence. No one who looked upon this flag could bear harm in their heart.

Suddenly, the squeal of tracks broke the silence behind T1 Cunningham and he turned his turret to look. To his surprise, a slender slope-fronted tank with a round turret burst through the hedge behind him. He seemed to be in a terrible hurry.

Helpfully, T1 Cunningham backed out of the way to give the newcomer a clear view of the flag, just in case that was what it wanted. But the fast tank ignored him completely, pulling up short of the flag. Seeming to sense trouble, it attempted to make a sharp left turn, but turned so sharply that itsback treads slid out from underneath him and sent it careening headfirst into a rock.

T1 Cunningham sprang forward in alarm, wondering if the other tank was okay. But before he could reach the stalled newcomer, a barrage of gunfire tore into the tank, blasting away its armor plating in an instant and kicking up the dirt around him. In a matter of seconds, what had been a tank had been reduced to a burning pile of twisted steel.

T1 Cunningham recoiled in horror. The brutality of the act he'd just witnessed was shocking. Desperately, he spun on his treads looking for help. Where were all of his friends? Had anyone witnessed this horrible act?

To his relief, a portly British medium came lumbering over. But his relief soon turned to horror as the large tank delivered an unwarranted coup de grace into the burning light tank. What was going on?

He was still trying to form the question when the medium shuddered twice and blew apart, apparently the victim of an ammo rack cook-off. T1 Cunningham reversed as fast as his little treads could carry him, scuttling for cover behind a large rock. He suddenly became aware of the sounds of shooting and battle, carrying on across the open plain.

_Maybe this is not such a nice place after all,_ he thought sadly. His friends were all gone, vanished from his signal range as though they'd never existed. Were had they all gone? He hoped they were alright.

He quickly peeked around the edge of the boulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of his companions. Far away, across the field, he glimpsed a few tanks moving amongst a ruined farmhouse. Relieved, he darted into the open and wiggled on his treads, hoping to get their attention. He even fired his gun in the air. Several turned toward him and their guns began to track. He smiled, sure that they'd seen him.

"Hello!" he called. "Hello, friends! Have you seen my teammates? Last I saw, they were headed in your direction. Perhaps you've seen them?"

The distant tanks said nothing. T1 Cunningham stared at them, puzzled. Could they see him? Loading another round, he prepared to try again, but at that second, a trio of muzzles flashed and three high-velocity shells zipped past him, smacking into the rock with enough force to send pieces flying.

T1 Cunningham darted back behind the rock, trying to make sense of it all. These were not friendly HE shells designed just to knock one's tracks off in a comradely way—these were AP shells, aimed with deadly intent. The other tanks had been gunning to kill him! Why would they do such a thing? Could it be in retaliation for the death of the other tank?

Suddenly, T1 Cunningham understood. He'd stumbled into a turf war of sorts, tanks against tanks for the possession of land. The implication was sobering. He'd never been in a battle before, and his nerves caused his reticule to bloom out unreliably. How would he ever survive?

Lost in these gloomy thoughts, he was startled when a boxy tank with many machine guns crashed into cover beside him. He cringed and brought his stubby gun around to bear. It was hard to center his gunsights on the target, he was shaking so badly.

The other tank saw this and quickly adjusted his armor to defend.

"Yo, yo!" the squat tank cried. "Put up your piece, man! We're on the same side!"

"Who are you?" T1 Cunningham asked, readying his gun to fire.

"I ain't the enemy, and that's for sure," the other tank assured him. "I'm the T7 Combat Car, and no joke, I'm the most special tank you'll ever meet! I'm so damn special, they ain't even got another tank like me! Road wheels! Check it!"

He spun on his rather oversized treads, allowing T1 Cunningham a good glimpse of his undercarriage. Though he wasn't exactly sure what he was supposed to be seeing, T1 Cunningham bobbed his turret politely.

"It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise, bro. Likewise. What kind of gat you running? Thirty-seven mike? Hah! You'd better stick with me, kid. I'll get you out of here alive, don't you worry."

While appreciative of the offer, T1 Cunningham felt slightly stung by the allusion to his snub-nosed M191 semi-automatic as inferior. It wasn't overly intimidating, sure, but it was lightweight and reliable enough. He thought it impolite to comment, but T7 Car's gun looked downright insignificant by comparison.

"Okay, here's the deal—I move, you cover me. Then I turn around and cover you, got it?"

"Okay," he said, wondering what cover had to do with it. Did T7 Car mean to take a shell for him?

"Go! Go! Go!" T7 Car barked, sprinting out from behind cover. "Cover me!"

T1 Cunningham poked his turret out from behind the rock, watching T7 Car's breathless dash. There were a lot of enemy tanks on the field, and some were looking his way. Remembering what had happened last time, he quickly ducked back into the shelter of his rock. It was reassuringly cool and blocked him from view.

_I am a good player, _he thought. _That was smart. _A few shells exploded harmlessly nearby, but behind cover, he felt safe. This was probably what T7 Car had wanted him to do.

While he waited for the other tank to come back and tell him what to do next, he killed some time by lobbing a few shots at a crumbling barn. To his delight, a sizable chunk of masonry came tumbling down, revealing the interior of the structure. There was a strange tank inside, one that he'd never met before. Its top was open to the sky and its gun was rather large for such a small vehicle.

"Hello!" he cried cautiously, unsure if the strange new tank was friend or foe. "What are you doing in there?"

"Quiet, you fool!" the open-topped tank snarled, drawing back into the shadows. "You'll blow my cover!"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" T1 Cunningham whispered. "Are you hiding? Me too."

"No, no. I'm a Tank Destroyer," the tank said proudly. "A sniper. We take out the enemy using stealth and daring."

"Wow!" T1 Cunningham said, genuinely impressed. "Have you taken out a lot of tanks today?"

"No," TD said, peering out from beneath his camouflage net. "My first priority is to remain undetected. If I fired my gun, they might spot me."

"Oh." T1 Cunningham understood. That was smart. Tank Destroyers must be very smart tanks. "Do you think I could be a Tank Destroyer?"

"Not a chance," TD said. "You have to have a low profile, like me. You're a scout."

"A scout?" That was the first time T1 Cunningham had ever heard that. "What does a scout do? Do we fight other tanks?"

"Hell no," TD chuckled. "Your job is to drive straight at the enemy and find them so that we snipers can shoot at them. You'll be so busy trying to avoid getting shot, you probably won't even have time to _aim _your gun, let alone fire it!"

"Oh," T1 Cunningham said. His heart sank. "I don't think I want to be a scout."

"Well, you don't _have _to," TD said in a tone that made it clear what he felt about light tanks who wouldn't scout. "You could always go hang out with arty. Those losers are always whining about something. I'm sure you'll fit right in."

"Okay," T1 Cunningham said dispiritedly. "Where are they?"

"In the woods, as far from the line as possible. Just follow the sound of clicking."

T1 Cunningham didn't really understand, but he sensed that there was nothing more to discuss with the stealthy TD, and besides, T7 hadn't come back yet. He might as well go see if the artillery could use any help.

The woods were thick and scrubby, but he found the artillery set up behind a church just up the hill. There were two of them, both open-topped like TD, but with larger guns pointed to the sky. One looked like a tank that had been cut in half and the other bore a large red star on its tall armor carriage. As he drew closer, he found that they were deep in conversation, apparently oblivious to the world around them. He idled respectfully, waiting for them to finish their discussion. They were using a lot of big words that he did not understand, but he caught a little.

"Adjust elevation three degrees," one was saying. "Zero the target and fire for effect."

"Copy," the other said. His gun moved almost imperceptibly. "Two-thirds charge, high-explosive. Firing for effect."

With an ear-splitting roar and a flash, the SPG fired and immediately swiveled to engage another target. A second later, the other followed suite.

"Good hit, good effect. Time-on-target and shoot again, up elevation three-zero. Shoot on my mark."

"Copy, up elevation three-zero."

"Full charge, high-explosive. Fire for effect."

They seemed busy, so T1 Cunningham left them alone. He wandered off up the hill, looking for someone to talk to. On his way, he came across four tanks idling in the ruined remains of a monastery. Some bore battle damage and the remains of burning tanks were scattered all around. A boxy tank adorned in speckled camouflage idled in their midst. White letters on his armor said "furious" and he seemed to be in charge.

T1 Cunningham puttered up to the back of the formation, curious as to what was happening.

"Okay, the plan is simple!" the tank was saying. "Pz. and Tetrarch are going to move up down the middle, Renault and I are going to provide cover from the treeline! Ignore their cap! We get more credits for killing them all!"

"No cap! Kill them all!" the assembled tanks chanted in unison.

"That's right!" T18 said. "Only bad players cap! You don't want to be bad players, right?"

"No cap! No cap! No cap!" the tanks cheered.

T1 Cunningham felt vaguely uneasy. He started to back away, but at that moment, T18 noticed him.

"You there! Scout! Come here!"

T1 Cunningham glanced left and right, looking for a way out. But all turrets were locked on him. Nervously, he rolled forward.

"I'm not really a scout—" he began.

"Of course you are! You're a light tank! Light tanks are scouts!" T18 assured him. "Now since you're the fastest among us, I want you to do the honor and lead the charge. I was going to have Renault do it, but after what happened to MS-1," he chuckled, glancing at a smoking pile of debris barely recognizable as a tank, "I sure am glad that you happened along!"

"But..." T1 Cunningham began, but T18 nudged him from behind.

"No time for that, soldier! Get down there and light them up! Go!"

With a shove, he sent T1 Cunningham careening down the hill toward the enemy base. Reticule wide with terror, T1 Cunningham shuddered and bumped down the hill flat out, waiting for the targeted shell that would blow him apart. His tracks whined in protest, but fear urged him on.

A shell whined over his turret and suddenly the air exploded with gunshots. The dirt geysered and puffed all around him with near misses as shells flew back and forth from both directions. T1 Cunningham maneuvered desperately, dodging shells and praying that his teammates were on the ball. He kept his eyes fixed on the flag, hoping against hope that he might somehow make it through.

Then, like a miracle, he somehow did. He broke through the lines and dashed away down a gentle rise, heading toward the water. Nobody pursued him. They were all too busy dealing with his comrades as they rolled up on the capture circle. He was free.

T1 Cunningham stopped, panting. He'd made it. He'd somehow survived. Looking up to the sky, he thanked RNG, SerB and the lesser Mods, grateful for his unexpected deliverance. He thanked them for their providence, swearing never to stoop to the evil of using premium shells purchased with credits.

But at that moment, he heard a sound that chilled him to the bone. From a bush only feet from the water's edge came a deep rumbling growl—the sound of a diesel engine. A hideous, open-topped bridge-like SPG came crawling into the open, gun slowly traversing toward him on its round carousel mount. T1 Cunningham panicked and instinctively fired off his five-round clip in quick succession, forgetting to allow time for his reticule to zoom in.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as every round missed its target, exploding harmlessly in the dirt. His internal timer began to count down, thirteen seconds until he could fire again. But it would be too late. The SPG was locked on. Staring down the barrel of the six-inch howitzer, T1 Cunningham felt rooted to the spot. His brief life passed before his eyes and he realized that he'd never grow to be a Sherman or see the snow-dusted streets of Himmelsdorf.

A single drop of hydraulic fluid dripped off the end of his gun as he prepared to return to the big garage in the sky.

"Please..." he whispered, begging for mercy. The arty had him dead to rights. Why hadn't it fired yet? Was it toying with him?

Then, to his complete surprise, the SPG turned, seemed to hesitate and then slipped into the water. It vanished beneath the surface, leaving no trace but a slick of oil where it had disappeared. T1 Cunningham idled motionless in shock, half-expecting it to re-emerge from the water to finish the job. But there was only the sighing of reeds in the wind and the sound of birds. The battle for Malinovka was over.

T1 Cunningham lingered by the water. His friends were celebrating in the capture circle, shooting the air and ramming each other. He felt he should say something before he joined them, but he wasn't sure what would be appropriate.

"Thank you," he said finally. "I wish we could have been friends." He'd learned a lot of lessons today, good and bad. With new resolve, he turned to join the others and did not look back. He felt like a new tank. He would not put the lessons he'd learned to waste.

A second later, the tank in the water exploded as arty found its mark.


End file.
